Jennifer August

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

 
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Copyright © 2011 Jennifer August

First Electronic Printing July 2011

Cover by SoWrite Designs, [email protected]

All Rights Are Reserved
. No Part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews.

Dear Reader:

Knight of the Mist is a very special book to me. It was actually a gift from my muse. A very rare offering, I’ve come to realize. I actually dreamed this entire book, start to finish over and over again until I knew I had to write it. I sat down and out it came. Stirling and Quinn are two of my favorite characters and I hope you enjoy their story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

I would love to hear from you! Drop me an e-mail at
[email protected]
. You can also find me on
Facebook
(Jennifer August) and Twitter (@
jennifer_august
). I hope to hear from you!

Happy reading,

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

This book would not have been possible without the eagle eyes and to-the-point comments of my critique partners:
Mae
Harless
, Wendy
Treitel
, Susan Gable and Diana Duncan
.

To my family: thank you. Thank you for all your years of support, belief and the idea that I control my destiny. This one’s for you Mom (
Christiane
Payton), Dad (Stephen Payton), brother Christopher Payton and son Connor McLean.

Knight of the Mist

By

Prologue

Southern England
, October 1064

“Norman bastard!”

Quinn de Trefoid raised a brow at the Saxon knight’s arrogance but remained silent. Inwardly, he cursed his own stupidity for allowing them to capture him, for venturing so far from camp alone. After tracking the renegade knights on foot for nearly two hours, their trail had simply disappeared with the fading sun. He’d been about to turn back when they surrounded him. It was the mistake of an untrained, untested pup.

Idiot
.

William would have his head for this. If he survived with it intact.

Five warriors encircled him, four on foot, one atop a mottled brown warhorse. The beast snorted and shook his head, gnawing at the bit between his teeth.

Each man standing carried a short bastard sword, sharp, honed and obviously well-used and equally as well-cared for. He frowned. It didn’t quite fit with the image of the rag-tag outlaws he been tracking. The mounted man, face half-covered by his helm, gripped a long sword.

They were still and silent, but poised for battle. Quinn’s hammered helm and ring mail vest, though adequate for tracking, offered scant protection in combat. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword.

“Why are you here,
Norman
?” one called out.

The leader, sitting astride the horse, spat at the ground between Quinn’s feet. “It doesn’t matter, we’re going to kill him. Just as Lord Robert commanded.”

It was all the warning Quinn needed. He slapped down the faceplate of his helm and he brought his blade up as two of the knights jabbed and slashed at him with their swords. The clashing screech of metal on metal rang through the glade and sparks showered him as he met the attack.

Quinn fought back viciously, grimly satisfied when his blade found its mark and one of the men fell lifeless to the ground. Two more joined the fray and a slashing stroke to his side slipped between the links of his mail, scoring the flesh. Quinn arched, raising his blade in time to ward off what was nearly a death blow.

Keep your mind on your enemies
.

Quinn returned the thrust, spilling the man’s lifeblood, evening the numbers considerably.

The two remaining knights on foot renewed their attack with vigor, but Quinn fended them off, managing to repel each new riposte. Their leader cursed loudly before dismounting and entering the melee. Finally, the mercenaries beat Quinn back, bestowing more nicks and cuts, one blow slamming his helm against his forehead, splitting the flesh. Blood poured from the wound, blinding him in one eye. Determined not to die in this foreign land, Quinn lunged forward, sinking the tip of his sword deep through the leader’s right shoulder.

“Finish him!” The man gasped, cursing savagely as he pulled himself off Quinn’s blade.

Eyes narrowed, Quinn turned to face the two remaining soldiers, but saw only one. The crack of a twig sounded behind him seconds before a blade slipped beneath his mail to the vulnerable side of his lower back. With a howl and an instinctive, yet vicious underhanded thrust, he pierced the man’s flesh, sending him stumbling away, sword embedded in his gut.

Liquid, hot pain seared Quinn’s back, darkened his vision and he swayed, dropping heavily to one knee.

Quinn blinked away the sting of blood-tinged sweat and pinned the leader who slumped against a large rock, with a glare. “William, Duke of
Normandy
will see you dead for this day’s deeds.”

“Dead men do not speak.” The brigand standing before him sneered, raising his sword.

The long mournful wail of a battle horn stopped him and he whirled to the sound, as did the leader.

“Mother of God,” the first cried, crossing himself.

“Nay!’Tis impossible!” the leader shouted furiously. He pointed at Quinn. “Finish it!”

“Do you doubt your own eyes, Tristan? He has the Knight’s protection.” The brigand spun from Quinn and scrambled to the edge of the glade. “‘tis death to challenge the Knight of the Mist. I’ll not walk forever the in-between for this Norman dog.” He skittered away, disappearing into the dense wood.

Quinn ignored the pain of his own wound, struggled to his feet and yanked his sword from the dead man’s belly. He inched toward the safety of the forest, praying the blackness hovering at the edge of his awareness would not overtake him ere he slipped away. Bleary-eyed, he scanned the ridge above them, seeing only the shadowy darkness of evening. The white mist that wreathed the hills roiled and glided down the grass toward him, but he saw no other knight.

“Coward!” The one called Tristan shouted as his man fled, then spun back to Quinn. He stalked forward, his own blade clumsily clasped in his left hand. “You will not live, Norman dog!”

Rage burned in Quinn’s blood, giving him strength as the man drew nearer. “I will not be the one to die this day.” He deflected Tristan’s heavy-handed attack and retaliated with a slicing blow to the back of his knees. Though he forced the other man back and put him on the defensive, Quinn knew he could not keep the pace up for long. His blood flowed hotly down his back and weakness seeped into his very marrow. He lunged, determined to end the battle, but Tristan swung away at the last instant and the ground rushed up to meet Quinn as he fell, sword flying from his fingers. He sprawled motionless, breath stolen, body aching. The scrape of armor against rock jolted him and he rolled over and watched with wary eyes as the injured leader limped closer.

The man’s blood-streaked battleplate glinted duly in the mist-filtered sunlight. The scrape and drag of his steel-clad foot grated along Quinn’s ears like the whistle of an axe through air. Suddenly, the heavy thunder of hooves echoed through the glade and the Saxon knight froze, his gaze flying toward the sound.

His sword clattered to the ground and he raised his uninjured arm as if warding the approaching figure away. “Nay! You are not real.”

Quinn squinted upward through the blood of his head wound. A figure covered head to foot in gleaming silver armor stared down at him from atop a gray war horse. The silver knight carried a shield of the same shining metal, but brandished no sword that Quinn’s hazy eyes could detect.

God’s teeth, if only the pain would recede.

Lacking the energy to endure another fight, Quinn sought the stamina to lever himself up and away while Tristan’s attention was turned to this mysterious knight.

The gleaming warrior stopped between Quinn and Tristan and raised a silver-clad arm pointing toward the top of the ridge.

“Leave this place, Tristan of Falcon Fire, and live another day.” The flat, metallic command echoed from behind the helm.

Tristan clutched at the wound in his shoulder, then slowly backed up until he reached his horse. Mounting with effort, he glared at Quinn and the silver knight. “‘Tis not done,” he spat, then quickly urged his horse over the hill.

Quinn sighed in relief, and, unable to hold the darkness at bay any longer, let his eyes fall shut.

The creak of leather and clank of armor brought them open once more. He struggled to rise as the silver knight approached him, determined to fight to the death. But the silver knight wielded no weapon, instead offered his hand.

Quinn eyed it warily. In his weakened state, one false move would leave him completely vulnerable. More vulnerable.

“Take my hand and rise,
Norman
.”

Again, the odd, almost-lilting metallic voice. Strangely compelling and soothing. Quinn accepted the proffered hand and winced, a groan and gasp escaping as he gained his feet and full weight. His legs were weakened by fatigue and the loss of blood but his determination to return to William’s camp spurred him on. The knight led him to his horse, a giant dappled gray who stood stock still as Quinn pulled himself onto his back aided by the now-silent, mysterious benefactor. He bit back the roil of nausea.

“My sword,” he muttered.

“Take this,” the knight said. He pressed a shorter sword, the hilt of which was encrusted with a round diamond, into Quinn’s hand, closing his palm over it. Blinking rapidly to clear his vision, Quinn lifted the light sword to examine it. Strength waning, he lowered the weapon and turned to thank his rescuer, but the figure in silver was gone.

Quinn knew his chances of reaching his overlord’s camp alive were slim, but he must try. The knowledge he’d gained this day would be invaluable to his campaign. He kneed the horse’s flanks, urging him in the direction of William’s tents. Gripping the sword tightly, he cast one final glance over his shoulder. A tendril of white mist moved restlessly over the ground. “If I live to see another day, I will return,” Quinn vowed. “You have my oath.”